


An Average Person's Perspective

by OftheLilies



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bottom John, Ignores S3 & S4, M/M, Masturbation, Sexual Tension, Sherlock is sexy, Top Sherlock, Twenty questions, and by pining I mean lusting, and john knows it, secretly pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-02
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-14 08:49:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9171823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OftheLilies/pseuds/OftheLilies
Summary: John comes home to find Sherlock masturbating on the couch. John isn't quite sure what to do with this revelation.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Español available: [An Average Person's Perspective](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13904916) by [Gnewtt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gnewtt/pseuds/Gnewtt)



> I couldn't get the idea out of my head so here it is on 'paper'... I don't have too much experience with writing fanfiction let alone multichapter fics. I hope to upload the next chapter in a timely manner and that you guys enjoy! Comments are always welcome! This has been beta'd by the lovely [88thParallel](http://archiveofourown.org/users/CanadaHolm/pseuds/88thParallel).
> 
>  
> 
> [Tumblr](http://ofthelilies.tumblr.com/)

John had been having a particularly shit day. His phone containing the alarm that should have woken him up had moved mysteriously from the bedside table to the couch while he was sleeping. Thanks to Sherlock, he had to rush through a series of morning routines in a matter of twenty minutes. 

 

It was only when he was halfway to work that he discovered an unidentifiable red substance splattered across the front of his checkered shirt. Pulling the fabric to his nose revealed an acrid smell that ruled out John’s first guess that it was blood. 

 

The rest of His work day at the clinic was a constant flow of flu patients and a dash of rashes in places better left unexplored. John felt the weight of the day’s irritability when he walked out of the clinic to the ding of his phone.

 

**John, pick up milk and a shovel. SH**

 

_ No. _

 

The hell John was going to get milk and he didn’t let his thoughts stay on the shovel for too long. The journey back comprised of mile long internal speech writing. It carefully, but firmly, covered the points of putting things back where you found them, taking objects without permission in the first place, and partial destruction of property. John would then announce that he would not be getting milk or shovels any time soon and that Sherlock would need to get them himself. There would be a standoff that only John was aware of that would result in him getting milk the following day.

 

It was all very typical until it wasn’t.

 

“Sherlock,” John began as he pushed open the door. He could already see the silhouette of the consulting detective in the shadows of his vision. “It is common decency-“ The words cut off abruptly, air caught in his throat.

 

Sherlock was sitting on the couch with the familiar distant look he wore when he was worlds away. In any other situation John would have assumed that his friend was on a trip through his mind palace. This conclusion would have caused John to save the bout of yelling for later and a move to the kitchen to put on the kettle. Instead, his flatmate had his hand wrapped around his… John didn’t think he’d ever be able to say it, let alone complete the thought.

 

He immediately averted his gaze to Sherlock’s eyes. John’s cheeks were quickly flooded with red and he should be clearing his throat and muttering some kind of embarrassed rushed apology. Why he would be apologizing, John wasn’t sure, but it seemed like the customary thing to do when walking on your flatmate having a toss.

 

He came to the realization that Sherlock hadn’t taken in his appearance at their stoop. The consulting detective continued to stare forward with lost-looking eyes. Sherlock’s mouth was the tiniest bit parted, bottom lip glistening with moisture. John found himself wondering if Sherlock had used his own saliva to slick his hand up and there was his gaze dropping again. Long unhurried strokes over hard flesh.

 

“Oh, John, you’re back.”

 

John snapped his head up quickly enough that the world seemed to tilt on its axis. Sea glass irises pierced through him with sharpness they shouldn’t have been capable of. 

 

The doctor felt air trapped in his lungs and he was choking on it.

 

“Uh,” was the most he could manage as he continued to stare on with a borderline traumatic sort of shock. He watched as Sherlock neatly tucked himself back in. The sound of a zipper might as well have been a gunshot going off in John’s head. It echoed and made his ears ring. 

 

Sherlock, for his part, was completely unaffected.

 

“Did you bring the shovel?” Sherlock asked, the intent look still present.

 

“The shovel?” John echoed not moving an inch. Mouth hanging open to catch flies.

 

“Yes, John, the shovel.” The word shovel had been elevated to another level compared to the rest of the sentence. John had been uttered as a replacement for idiot.

 

“I said no,” John responded back. The words had no heat to them and were as hollow  as empty husks.

 

Sherlock affected a calculating bored look. Most likely trying to figure out how to achieve his goals without the shovel or how to get John to get the shovel with haste. “No matter,” was the final response. Sherlock got up from his seat on the couch and moved to the table. “Excellent timing. Come take a look at these, I need an average person’s perspective.”

 

Sherlock leaned over the table with the quickest turn of his head over shoulder to ensure that John would follow. There wasn’t even a hint that Sherlock had just been on the couch masturbating. John walked forward in a daze. When he approached the table he sat down and immediately regretted the action. John quickly found himself repeating the mantra  _ don’t look there, don’t look there, don’t look there -- _ there being the front of his flatmate’s trousers in search of an erection. Some sort of sign that the whole incident hadn’t been imagined. Somehow, he doubted that such an action would go unnoticed by the detective.

 

There were images of dead, handless bodies scattered about the table and that should have taken the full of his attention. John would look over it with a doctor’s eye and announce details that Sherlock was fully aware of. John found himself studying his flatmate’s right hand instead. Trying to detect any moisture there, unable to get rid of his earlier thought. The palm of Sherlock’s hand was faced down towards the table away from sight as he pointed parts of the images out.

 

“John? John, are you listening?” Sherlock’s manic tones had faded from focus like a light rain. Now it more of a thunder roll, impossible to ignore.

 

“No, uh, what are we discussing?”

 

One of Sherlock’s more withering expressions. “The case.” A slight tilt to indicate the photos that were obviously present. John wasn’t even sure why he’d asked that question. He felt utterly overwhelmed by a different variety of thoughts.

 

“Maybe they are trying to mask the victim’s identity,” he weakly said.

 

Sherlock’s expression had gone from withering to flat out questioning John’s intelligence. “I wasn’t interested in your thoughts on motive, but looking for your medical opinion John. Besides, their faces are intact and at least one of them had identification on their person. The scenario you are proposing is highly unlikely.” That could be considered a gentle response to John’s statement. 

 

He was surprised by the lack of attack behind the words.

 

Sherlock was extremely impatient with hurried energy. John was already speechless as he looked at his friend’s cheeks. They were stained with the barest hints of red. Was that because of his earlier activities, the excitement of the case, or the mild irritation that was present over John’s lack of cooperation?The doctor tried to think back to the earlier version of Sherlock. Had his cheeks been flushed? John’s gaze had been drawn to Sherlock’s mouth and he couldn’t be certain.

 

Sherlock was staring at John blankly, apparently having given up on words and had taken to waiting. The back of John’s neck felt hot and his skin was stretched too tight over his body.

 

“Sorry,” John muttered.

 

A second ticked by and finally Sherlock’s brows gathered in a look that could be considered concern. “Are you unwell?” Sherlock asked and seemed uncomfortable with question. Seemed uncomfortable with withdrawing his attention from the case. When John didn’t respond with the speed Sherlock expected of him he was shocked to find a hand pressed lightly and unsurely to his forehead. “No fever. You look rather flushed. Perhaps you had better lay down,” was proposed awkwardly.

 

The thoughts of Sherlock’s hand and where it had been rushed forward without permission, causing whatever flush that had been present to crawl its way down John’s neck. Upon further investigation it had been Sherlock’s left hand, not his right pressed against his skin. John still couldn’t manage any words which made Sherlock increasingly more concerned and in turn uncomfortable. The idea of a sick John wasn’t a welcome one and with the evidence at hand this seemed an obvious conclusion.

 

Sherlock gave a longing look towards the papers on the table, his finger rhythmically ticking against the wood before withdrawing it. With a sigh he tried another tactic. “You had been beginning to discuss common decency when you came in,” Sherlock suggested in a regrettable manner. He knew those kinds of discussions often resulted in John’s raised tones. It seemed that he was looking for any reaction that wasn’t the deer in headlight stare he was currently at the receiving end of.

 

Common decency, right. John realigned his thoughts and prepared for the beginning of the shirt and cellphone discussion. “You were touching yourself,” came out instead. John wished he could pull the words back in as soon as they’d come out. There had been no intention of voicing what he’d seen. He didn’t even want what he’d seen in his mind and now it was sitting there in the open. He wasn’t sure if actually saying it was the embarrassing part, or his choice of words. Touching himself? John went through a series of more sterile ways he could have phrased that..

 

“I know you have a penchant for pointing out the obvious, but really John?” It was slightly sardonic, partly dismissive, and mostly relieved. The tension in Sherlock slipped out as it became more tightly coiled in John. That should have been the end of it. Sherlock had confirmed what he’d seen and John could sort out whatever his thoughts were in his room later, after the case had been dealt with.

 

Instead…

 

“Are you still hard?”

 

Sherlock who had diverted back to the photos now blinked at John. The amount of time that passed made the temptation for John to shrivel into a speck of dust in the corner almost overwhelming. John sat there, wondering what the hell was wrong with him. You didn’t just ask something like that, it wasn’t done.

 

“What?” Sherlock asked with an uptick of his brow. He didn’t appear embarrassed, just confused.

 

Now that he had started it he might as well finish it. John of course could just look for the evidence, but now his thinking would be painfully obvious and he didn’t know what to do. Why he would even ask that? 

 

“Are you-“ John stopped when his voice came out a little too high pitched for his liking. Cleared his throat. “Are you still hard?” he tried to announce it as a normal, even, leveled question. Put in the effort to make it nonchalant like he was asking if Sherlock wanted a cuppa.

 

Sherlock continued to not give answer to what had been asked. The calculating expression was back and it made the anxiety John was suffering increase tenfold. Finally, “Why do you ask?” That Sherlock had given any response caused John to feel the slightest bit less fearful that he was about to be ordered out of the room.

 

“Uh.” He hadn’t prepared a response for that, and wasn’t even sure himself.

 

Sherlock took pity. “Would you rather go back to the case?” he offered, and it still wasn’t about embarrassment over the subject. Sherlock was interested in whatever John was experiencing, but not more than the case. John would take the exit gracefully so that they could both move forward with what was important. Lives could possibly be at stake.

 

“Aren’t you embarrassed?” John didn’t know how to stop himself.

 

“I see this is going to be the topic then.” There was obvious disdain now. “Self stimulation is a perfectly natural function and is in fact healthy, John. I had assumed you’d know that either as a doctor or from your own self-practice. Your apparent shock is confounding and can wait until we solve these multiple homicides.”

 

“Right,” John said nodding. “Right.” The bobble head motion continued as the words  _ self stimulation _ resounded.

 

“Fantastic,” Sherlock said once again attempting to get back to The Work. “Now-“

 

“So, self stimulation,” John interrupted, “is something you do?”

 

There was a huff of exasperation as Sherlock threw down the piece of parchment he had been holding back onto the table. “Honestly, John?”

 

“I’m sorry, sorry. Right, yeah the case.” He didn’t move and continued to eye Sherlock in a mystified fashion. His brain still couldn’t wrap itself around what had happened, what was currently happening. Sherlock returned the look, more searching than anything else. Finally the detective shook his head in the appearance of defeat.

 

“Let’s get your questions out of the way then. Yes, I’m still… How did you put it? Hard. Yes, I partake in masturbation. Sometimes, I like to clear my head on a case and find it to be a useful tool. Now since you apparently are unable to concentrate I’ll be off to my room. We can reconvene at a later time.”

 

The detective swept up the papers and was continuing to give John a disappointed glare at his human shortcomings. John felt properly abashed and still completely staggered. He watched his friend go through the kitchen and down the hall in a not so evenly paced manner. He wasn’t rushing away, but was clearly displeased. He should feel more interest towards the homicides, but the only thing John could think about was whether or not Sherlock was going to finish what he’d started out here in the confines of his bedroom…

 

And why he cared so much.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'What to do if you catch your flatmate wanking on the couch in the living room you walk into every day? The flatmate that has shown no interest in any sex related activities before. Really, I really need opinions.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello guys! Here is the next chapter. It turned out a lot longer than I intended. I'm still trying to figure out if this is going to be a three chapter piece... or four. We shall see! I hope you guys enjoy. This chapter has been beta'd by the amazing [88thParallel](http://archiveofourown.org/users/CanadaHolm/pseuds/88thParallel).  
> Thanks for all the lovely comments thus far. :)
> 
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> [Tumblr](http://ofthelilies.tumblr.com/)

   

With the addition of another murder, Sherlock expertly solved the case in a spectacular fashion. John had followed along loyally while a myriad of explicit thoughts ran through his head. Not explicit in a way that was -- there was no good way of describing the interest John had taken in Sherlock’s newly revealed aptitude towards self stimulation (as Sherlock put it) that wouldn’t make him sound less than straight. Despite the many attempts of banishing the thoughts and moving on with his life as it had been, John couldn’t be rid of them.

 

During the case there had been a multitude of times that John’s eyes had strayed to Sherlock’s hand in the kind of concentration his friend reserved for the dead. In fact, one of the times Sherlock had been bent over a corpse he'd beckoned John to observe more closely. His hand had been curled around the edge of his square shaped magnifying glass. There was nothing indecent about the gesture, no connection to be drawn. Despite the lack of reason, John’s mind transported him back to the sitting room, and the curl of Sherlock’s fingers wrapped around his flesh as he slowly dragged his hand back up.

 

At that point Sherlock had given up on John in terms of conversation. He made a comment about distraction, but then was too pleased with a revelation he’d had regarding the body. Within hours there was an arrest.

 

That had been two days ago.

 

The next day John had another shift at the clinic. He picked up a carton of milk from Tesco on the way home. He put it in the fridge upon arrival and then fled to his room where he remained for the rest of the day.

 

The plan was to sort out his thoughts. Figure out why he couldn’t stop thinking about the event that had taken place in their living room and from there find a way to get rid of the thoughts all together. He made little headway, and the next morning admitted defeat.

 

He trudged down the stairs trying not to let his frustration show, and found Sherlock at the kitchen table. It was a miracle that the flat hadn’t burned down in the fifteen or so hours John had spent upstairs.

 

Sherlock appeared to once again not have taken his presence into account. He was completely captured by his microscope and whatever slides lay beneath. There was an entire container with more slides to his left that was temporarily unattended. Sherlock had a pad of paper and was scribbling with his right hand.

 

John went over to the fridge before his mind could dance in any unwanted directions. “Tea?”

 

“Yes.” When John made no other movements, “Thank you.”

 

“Breakfast?” Sherlock ignored this question in favor of the slides. He took out a new one and held it up in the little natural light that was trickling in. “Sherlock.”

 

“I’ll abstain.”

 

“Sherlock.”

 

“You are the one that skipped dinner last night,” Sherlock retorted petulantly.

 

“So a muffin then?” John continued as if Sherlock had complied. He went through the practiced processes of putting the kettle on before grabbing a small plate for Sherlock’s muffin. John poured cereal into a bowl and stared down at the milk like it held the secret for easing his awkwardness.

 

The room felt overly quiet and stuffy as John made his way around. He sat down and pushed the small plate towards his flatmate. There was a newspaper placed precariously on the corner of the table. The doctor picked it up and suspected it made its way there via Mrs H rather than Sherlock.

 

John gave Sherlock a hard look that the detective pretended to be oblivious of until, with a huff, he picked up the baked good and began peeling away the liner. Sherlock did so with precision, slowly making his way clockwise until it had been completely removed.

 

John found it harder than usual to not watch his flatmate even though his current actions were incredibly mundane. It felt more like Sherlock was playing Russian Roulette or something equally as dangerous. Who the gun happened to be aimed at remained unclear. Regardless, John was at the edge of his seat waiting for a phenomena that would cause heart pounding excitement.

 

Nothing should be particularly exciting about watching someone eating a muffin. As far as food went it wasn’t too noteworthy. It could be annoyingly messy and texture varied wildly based on preparation. The ones John had bought at the supermarket tended to be on the drier side, but satisfactory. There was nothing about Sherlock slowly taking a bite that should have caused any sort of reaction. Sherlock wasn’t even really paying attention to eating at this point. He was almost completely distracted with the microscope. Crumbs smeared inelegantly across the corner of his mouth making the detective appear more human than usual. Sherlock wiped it away with barely any accuracy using his thumb, his tongue briefly flicking out to catch the pieces of food.

 

“That should suffice,” Sherlock muttered moodily setting it back on the plate.

 

John’s breath came out in a woosh of air he didn’t even know he had been holding. The sound caused Sherlock to give him a moment’s attention that led to several additional moments. The first glance was a grazing familiar one that stopped with a furrow of eyebrows. It retreated and Sherlock’s gaze went from the bottom of John’s shirt to his hand, to his shoes, to collar, to hair, mouth, and then eyes in seemingly random order. They were quick appraisals that took pieces of a puzzle that Sherlock easily knew how to put together.

 

John wasn’t sure why he felt so nervous.

 

Sherlock tilted his head for what felt like minutes after he had concluded his observations. There was a rigid thoughtfulness to him. It was broken when he quickly shook off whatever thought was present and went back to studying slides.

 

Nothing about what had occurred was the most unusual of things, John was used to being deduced. The stage hadn’t been set for Sherlock to show off so he was unlikely to reveal whatever he’d seen unless a drawing of curtains presented itself. John tried to relax in his chair but felt overly stiff and mechanical as he played a poor game of _put the spoon in your mouth without completely missing and getting milk everywhere_.

 

John went through the motions of taking a shower and doing some minor chores while trying to simultaneously not pay too much attention to Sherlock, while also not paying too little. He wanted to appear as normal and uninteresting to the detective as possible. This resulted in a lot of ambling in the middle of the room looking desperately around for something to do. The stress was proving to be more of a paralytic than anything. His thoughts were moving too quickly to actually pick an activity. When Sherlock moved from the kitchen to the living room all hope was lost.

 

He laid practically sprawled out on the sofa. John observed, with complete self pronounced objectivity, that Sherlock needed to put on weight. What with his pajama bottoms barely clinging on for life. There was a visible and pronounced hip bone between the elastic band and his wrinkled shirt. The robe gave more definition to his figure, when such a shapeless object really should be taking away from it. Hands steepled, eyes far away. The last time John had seen something akin to this expression had engaged in a completely different action.

 

John's cheeks were painted with loud slashes of red and he felt more frozen than before. There was nothing strange about Sherlock and what John had seen him doing the other day. It was hardly the first time he’d caught another man in that position. The army barracks had never been known for their sense of privacy. It was just… this was Sherlock.

 

Sherlock, the person that found eating an overly monotonous task to overcome. He didn’t derive pleasure from anything other than the work he was married to and occasionally the friendship he had with John. It didn’t make sense.

 

“Quiet. You shouting your internal monologue is interrupting my concentration.”

 

John tried to work up a scowl, but drew back in a bit of a panic instead. Sherlock had given no indication of noticing his meandering until now. There had been no inflection or tone to what had just been said. No hidden meanings, yet John couldn’t help but search and find millions of them.

 

This was not good.

 

John forced himself to grab his laptop from the table and move toward his chair. He sat down with the heaviness of everything that was going on in his head. John was a blogger, he’d just distract himself with blogging. They’d just solved a case, people would want to read about it. There would be comments and time spent responding to comments instead of thinking about Sherlock, his hands, and the couch. What had once been an innocuous piece of furniture had taken on a salacious ardor.

 

Getting back to the blogging. “Caught Red Handed,” he typed across the top of the entry. That was one way to put it. The snort and giggle that followed the thought drew an annoyed eye. John was quick to stifle it.

 

While the title came easily nothing else about the new post did. The main issue being the first part. It could easily be skipped, John could start with the following day. Forget the part where Sherlock had tried to get his opinion about the crime scene photos. John was stuck at the beginning though.

 

_It all began when I walked in on Sherlock tossing off. Yes, you did not misread._

 

The introduction somehow didn’t feel right. John briefly considered a different post altogether.

 

_What to do if you catch your flatmate wanking on the couch in the living room you walk into every day? The flatmate that has shown no interest in any sex related activities before. Really, I really need opinions._

 

John quickly backspaced that line of thought out of existence. It had only half been a joke. He couldn’t be the only one in the world that when faced with this, found it completely bizarre and life altering. Life altering perhaps was a strong statement, maybe perspective changing. This wasn’t what his audience craved. They enjoyed the narrative of their adventures together. Alright, so maybe a lot of their audience would welcome that kind of post. A confirmation that they possibly, in some kind of realm in which Sherlock is normal enough to do... _that_ , would also be normal enough to do related activities.

 

_The case started with a text for milk and a shovel. After Sherlock’s experiment gone wrong with my shirt and the lack of alarm I woke up to, I wasn’t getting him either, although I admit I was intrigued by the latter. Upon entering the flat I found Sherlock sitting on our couch with his hand fisted around his hard-_

 

It had the beginnings of an erotica novel. John once again hit down on the delete button with more vigor than the key really required. He ran a hand shakily through his hair and tried to find a new way of introducing what had happened. The doctor attempted to bring up the rest of the details to the case, but found his memories were blurred with his constant thought of Sherlock having a go of it on the couch. John glared at the couch like it was the culprit to this entire mess. How had Sherlock solved it? A misplaced blank sticky note. Maybe just figure out the beginning later and start with the middle and end of it.

 

_I came home to Sherlock giving himself a hand job. I came home to Sherlock giving himself a hand job. I came home to Sherlock giving himself a hand job. I came home to Sherlock giving himself a hand job. I came home to Sherlock giving himself a hand job. I came home to Sherlock giving himself a hand job. I came home to Sherlock giving himself a hand job. I came home to Sherlock giving himself a hand job._

 

The said man rose to his feet as John was halfway through writing the sentence a tenth time. John had hoped seeing it written out so clearly would have slapped reality into him hard enough that there would be no more lingering over the subject. Instead alarm filled him to the brim as he pressed several keys in order to minimize the window as quickly as possible. Sherlock made a beeline straight to the kitchen as John felt sweat starting to collect at his hairline. He positioned the computer away and did his best to stare blankly ahead like he was reading an article on the web, checking emails, or anything other than what he’d actually been doing. John would be aged years by the time he got past this crisis of his. It was several seconds before the blogger felt he could breathe evenly again. He relaxed and began to move the cursor so that he could bring the window back to front and quickly delete all of the letters.

 

“Why are you staring at a blank screen, John?”

 

John jolted upwards and nearly fell out of his chair. The voice was close enough that the tremor of it resonated along the skin of his neck and face. John could taste an eternity of heartbeats stuck to the roof of his mouth. He resisted the urge to throw the laptop across the room hard enough to erase all evidence.

 

“Christ, Sherlock!” He willed himself to calm down and lower the volume of his voice to anappropriate level. “Don’t sneak up on a bloke like that. I was switching between applications.”

 

“Hmmm,” Sherlock hummed with a musical quality so that the end uplifted. “No you weren’t.” John only then chanced a look up at his flatmate. The detective was looming over him with a face that would have been blank if it wasn’t for the narrowed quality of his eyes. There was a razor edge to the blue-green that left John feeling like he’d been stabbed in the gut. All warmth and the escape of blood he didn’t know how to control. John turned away in a hurry.

 

“Wasn’t I?” Came a mumbled reply with just the tiniest note of challenge. It was a way of asking it to be dropped without escalating to sod off. Anger on his part would just interest the detective more. He opened the application for his emails and made an effort to appear as if he was going through them. Sherlock was just a slightly annoying background prop that didn’t affect him at all.

 

“No, I don’t think so,” Sherlock said and John came to the realization that shaking off interest was too late now. Without even realizing it Sherlock had his teeth sunk into him and was intent on hunting down answers.

 

“Well I won’t bother asking what you think, then,” John commented offhandedly. He opened an email that was more likely to put a virus on his computer than have any actual content.

 

“Want to know what I think?” Sherlock began, as if John hadn’t made the last comment at all. As someone of shorter stature, the blogger wanted to glower at the long shadowed lines Sherlock’s draped form cast over him. He wasn’t going to chance another turn of the head even though there was a texture to Sherlock’s voice that all but demanded it.

 

“Not really, no.”

 

“It’s less of a thought and more of a certainty, really.” Sherlock sounded like he was musing, but he wasn’t. Just drawing out whatever game he was up to at this very moment. Unfortunately for John the game seemed to be him.

 

“I see you are already in the need of a new case.”

 

“From the angle over there,” Sherlock almost whispered while leaning in even closer. A robed arm moved past John’s face to point at the couch that had, had half of his attention for the past hour. The other half dedicated to Sherlock. “It isn’t too difficult to tell the positioning of your fingers and from there determine which keys you have been pressing in sequence with alarming repetitiveness. I know you tend to use certain word choices to the point of redundancy, but this seems more excessive than usual.”

 

John was left with a cold sinking feeling as Sherlock pulled away, his footsteps receding into the kitchen. This went beyond the usual embarrassment the detective sometimes caused and into the waters of humiliation.

 

He reluctantly closed his laptop as he tried to figure out how to approach this. John followed Sherlock into the same area like there was a string pulling him along. He needed to say something before Sherlock… Well there wasn’t a lot worse that could happen at this point.

 

Sherlock’s dark hair fell across his forehead as he speedily sent out a text. His gaze flickered up for a moment before he sat back down in front of the microphone. “Something you want to ask me?” Sherlock offered and for his part there was still no indication in his voice that John was out of bounds, doing something strange. It did little to make John feel better. He felt more like he was still at the edge waiting for a life-ending fall.

 

“No.” He could hear the hum of the refrigerator that played across the room in a similar way the jeopardy theme song resounded from the telly. “Yes.” More time, Sherlock fiddling with the magnification of the metal device at his hands. Also, waiting. It was a lot more patience than he usually exhibited. “No.”

 

“Don’t be tedious, John.”

 

“They aren’t…” John searched desperately for the right words. “The type of questions you ask. Maybe after a couple of pints,” he trailed off. It wasn’t exactly a forbidden subject. Variations of it had been brought up during school, while he was in the army, and a number of other situations. There were even instances where it could be mentioned in the context of medicine. It just felt particularly strange discussing anything in this realm with Sherlock Holmes.

 

“Ah, unspoken societal rules. How dull.” And he made it sound like John was underwhelming him, one of the masses. He seemed disappointed, although there was no telltale downcast to his face.

 

John was still standing there and the discussion he wasn’t sure he wanted to have was happening. If he could just ask a few questions, the need for information would be satisfied and this would all be done with. “You sure?” The exhale of air that followed sounded like an insult. “So that’s a thing you do?”

 

Sherlock gave him a bright electric glance from the corner of his eyes. “If I’d known you were going to repeat yourself I’d have said no to the first question.”

 

“Right, quite right,” John said fumbling for words. He wondered if Sherlock busying himself was a way of hiding nervousness, but immediately doubted it. Sherlock seemed very at ease, like an everyday occurrence was occurring. Practically expectant, the turn of events predictable.

 

“So do you often do that on the couch?” Well, there went this possibly being in the context of medicine. It was also not the question he wanted to ask and he once again was left bewildered by the lack of control he had over his own words.

 

That got Sherlock away from the microscope and facing John. His facial features were displaying complete perplexity. Definitely a rarity. What John had just asked wasn’t in whatever line of predictable responses Sherlock had arranged in his mind. Slowly, “I’ve never put a lot of thought into location. I didn’t realize it was significant. Why?”

 

 _Why?_ The question had been stated more like Sherlock was asking himself why his blogger would ask that rather than actually asking John. “Just wondering,” he said lamely.

 

“Do you wonder these things a lot?”

 

His skin may have been permanently dyed the color of cherries. “No.” It wasn’t exactly a lie. He hadn’t thought of it at all until two days ago.

 

“Hmm,” Sherlock was back to the slides, apparently disinterested once again.  John shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

 

“So it’s a regular thing?”

 

“Define regular.”

 

Now John was starting to overcome his nerves enough to realize that he was being toyed with just slightly. The only reason Sherlock was entertaining this was because at some level he found it entertaining and intriguing. The neutral façade he wore was very convincing. “Right, then. So do you do other things?”

 

“Other things?”

 

“You know… Other things.” John was emphasizing the word other things with a specific meaning that might have been difficult to decipher if you weren’t the world’s only consulting detective. John hadn’t known he’d wanted to ask this until the very moment he had. This may have been what had really been bothering him the entire time.

 

“Are you asking me about sex, John?” There was a definite glimmer of amusement as Sherlock continued staring down the instrument. He paused to scribble notes continuing not to look at his flatmate directly. The disregard displayed was perhaps the most frustrating aspect of it all.

“No. Yes. Well… yes.” John tried to take in the color of the wallpaper, but couldn’t find a way to discontinue his study of Sherlock. Sherlock who hadn’t taken a shower yet today. His hair more on the messy side of things as a result. A hint of stubble along his jawline. No one had a right to be that attractive under this kind of lighting but he pulled it off effortlessly.

 

“Yes, I’ve partaken in sexual intercourse, often for experimental purposes. For the most part I find other human beings to be lacking and don’t see much to gain from the act.” He paused and finally smiled. It was more of a smirk with just one side pulled up. “But John, even I get bored,” the implication of a unique type of boredom left to hang in the air.

 

The comment of being bored brought forth all of the instances in which Sherlock had been unbearably so. How he became completely and alarmingly unrestrained. Nearly violent in chaotic outbursts. John could only imagine what that kind of man would be like in bed. Domineering, forceful, with endless amounts of energy. He’d instruct exactly how he wanted to be fucked and be without any patience. Hesitation or slowness would result in Sherlock immediately grabbing the reins and manipulating the person to his preferences. There would be no gentle hand holding just rough pushes that would leave bruises behind. Then came the images of Sherlock doing the topping instead.

 

John shuddered.

 

“Should I be checking your pulse?” Sherlock commented dryly, his face back to the microscope, but smile still in place. He wasn’t openly being studied, but John wasn’t fooled. He was, however, excruciatingly embarrassed. John had somehow skipped the gap between thinking about Sherlock masturbating to thinking about Sherlock having sex. Rough, rampant and dirty sex. With him.

 

“Have you been experimenting lately?” John’s attempts at disinterested interest were not the most successful. With that question came an entirely different set of imagination. Sherlock the scientist. Scrutinizing, not missing anything, able to deduce everything. He’d seen people come apart with a few select choices of Sherlock’s words. There was no telling what he would be able to do with his hands.

 

“No,” Sherlock rumbled. “I find more than enough excitement here.”

 

John found himself leaning against the table, unconsciously pitching himself towards Sherlock. He licked his lips that suddenly felt too dry once, twice. A third time. He was left light headed, like he needed something tying him down to the ground. Ideas floated through his mind with a softness that you can’t fully wrap your head around.

 

“Do you ever have people help you… Clear your mind? For… you know… cases?” It wasn’t the right question. He wanted to ask about the excitement. What made the _here_ Sherlock lived in right now so exciting that he didn’t need whatever methods of so called experimentation that he used before.

 

“Ridiculous.”

 

“So you don’t? With other people?” John was practically repeating himself, but he was still finding his way back to firm and safe land. A place where his views were not all contorted in the notion of Sherlock in that kind of position with anyone.

 

“I don’t have sex to clear my head during cases. Imagine the time taken away from The Work.”

 

“Right.” He really should have expected that. “And these experiments… Male, female?”

 

“I feel like we’ve had this conversation before.” A dismissal.

 

It was like Sherlock to call people experiments and John to humanize them for Sherlock. He should be calling them people, but he couldn’t bring himself to. Humans and people were flesh and bones, tangible and real. The use of experiment was distant and clinical. It made it seem like another activity altogether.

 

“How many experiments have you conducted?”

 

Sherlock was tapping his foot. Whatever patience had been there was quickly evaporating. He was ready for a new more interesting subject while John was left feeling fascinated. “If you’d like to talk about romanticism and conquests I’d suggest inviting Garret for a pint.”

 

“Funny.”

 

Sherlock responded with a questioning expression and John decided not to press. John knew a dead end when he saw one. He prepared to walk back to his computer where he now could hopefully write out an actual blog post but stopped.

 

“Don’t you want to ask me anything?” It only seemed fair.

 

Sherlock had been entirely reabsorbed with whatever was contained in the slides, but that gained his interest more than any other part of the conversation had up until this point. “Ask you anything? Where would be the fun in that?”

 

John realized his mistake the second he noticed Sherlock’s smile. It wasn’t the kind of smile someone saw in the curve of another’s mouth, no this one was all in the eyes. There was a predatory glint there that Sherlock had before a long string of words tumbled forth with astonishing accuracy. John braced himself for impact.

 

“I don’t need to ask you, you wear your sexual habits on your sleeve. You get off in the shower nearly every other day like clockwork. Every now and again in your room if you are feeling extra randy. Only occasionally with the added assistance of an online provided video. How do I know that? Easy, the length of your showers. Your bedroom is directly above mine, but you probably had already come to that conclusion on your own. You use the same stock of fantasies religiously, only replacing the women’s face with whichever girl you happen to be interested in during that given week. The amount of times you’ve been servicing yourself has doubled this past week which isn’t unusual when you are about to go on a date. You have one planned for tomorrow. A girl you met at Tesco while in the fruits and vegetables section. She is dimwitted, but you pretend to find it _cute_ . I say that because she fell for your food pun related pick-up line. Really, John? You might as well have been reading some of your poetry. Interestingly, you’ve rescheduled on her twice and intend to cancel without picking out a new date. Why? You find being distracted on dates by cases and my well being moderately acceptable, but thinking about another man touching his cock while at dinner may be considered a bit rude. Don’t worry, I don’t misunderstand that for anything other than human curiosity. That’s not the only reason you are canceling, you are also bored. Sick of the niceties, politeness, and practically scheduled sexual intercourse and masturbation. You want excitement and barely any of _this_ offers you any of _that_.”

 

Sherlock paused. “What else am I supposed to be asking?”

 

John opened his mouth, closed it, worked his jaw, and opened it again. “I think you just about covered it.”

 

“Are you sure you don’t want me to go into the specifics of performance?”

 

“I think that demonstration proved you-- No, I’m good.” John was still trying to get past that Sherlock had said the word cock in that context.

 

Sherlock smiled. “Good.”

 

“Amazing really. The fruits and vegetables section?”

 

“You bought kiwis.”

 

“Ah, right,” John muttered trying to draw the connection, but coming up with nothing. _Human curiosity._ John wished he could dismiss his obsessive thoughts as easily as Sherlock had. To Sherlock the subject had been wrapped up with his deductions. John could be at ease and his interest in the subject would die out. But if anything, John felt more transfixed than before.

 

He certainly was not bored.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Why don’t you try being bored with me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To start with I am so so so sorry for people who have been reading this since I first posted. I had not meant for this chapter to take so long. If you are interested in an explanation I had started this fic pre Season 4 Finale and upon watching the finale I was sent in a sort of tailspin. It was very difficult for me to properly grasp my creativity for this fic when I was so upset over what I had watched. That was one issue, the other was I wasn't sure how to write this without making John into a total stalker. In the end I was like fudge it, I'm doing this how I want! So... Yeah that's the shortened version of what happened! I hope everything was worth the wait. This chapter has been beta'd by the wonderful [88thParallel](http://archiveofourown.org/users/CanadaHolm/pseuds/88thParallel)All of the comments people left really made my day and I can not thank you enough.
> 
>  
> 
> [Tumblr](http://ofthelilies.tumblr.com/)

John was hovering.

 

He was well aware of the fact he was hovering, but the will to stop had long since been expended. Sherlock, for his part, was doing a great job of pretending it wasn’t happening, only occasionally looking up with a stare that said, ‘Oh you’re still there.’ Even that did little to derail John’s attention. His thoughts were on a loop and all of them were about Sherlock. It had become a bit obsessive, the amount of questions he still had but wasn’t willing to ask.

 

“Bored, John! I’m bored!”

 

He’d called off his date days prior. Sherlock was right. There was something a bit rude about thinking of another man’s cock while at dinner with a cute girl… Or maybe there wasn’t but John knew she’d be getting none of his attention. He had deleted the number from his phone so there would be no more rescheduling attempts.

 

Sherlock was on the floor, clicking through telly channels like it was a game. “When was the last time you were bored with someone?” John asked and it wasn’t his first attempt in trying to subtly continue to question Sherlock about his sexual practices. The detective had taken to more vague answers or deflections again. His interest in John’s interest being pushed away.

 

“Right now,” Sherlock said dryly in return.

 

John nodded and said on impulse, “Why don’t you try being bored with me?” The transition from his first question and his second had not been intended to be sexual. He hadn’t fully thought that through and it wasn’t his usual phrasing for proposing Sherlock-safe levels of entertainment. Still, Sherlock’s head snapped toward him quickly with curious and assessing eyes. “I mean-- I uh--“ John positioned his hand at the back of his head in an awkward gesture.

 

“What are you doing?”

 

“Just... uh... looking through a magazine.” A clothing magazine to be specific. Which in itself was out of the ordinary for John. A majority of his clothing collection he’d had for years. New additions were generally in the form of presents from friends or the estranged Harry. There had been many garish sweater donations on behalf of his sister. The magazine was all part of the plan though, and Sherlock had given him a good segue into it.

 

“What do you think about this one?” John said turning the magazine around. He pointed to a tall man with a dark thicket of hair. He was wearing something that looked more Sherlock than John if the price tag was anything to go off of. John had spent many of the past few days reviewing conversations from the beginning of their relationship. Through this he was fairly certain Sherlock was more interested in men than women. Which led John to wonder what kind of men, naturally.

 

“The clothing or the individual?” Sherlock asked with his eyebrows scrunched, inched closer to John from where he sat. It wasn’t like John often asked for Sherlock’s opinion on either.

 

“The individual.” John tried to rationalize this was normal, asking his closest friend about whether he found a person attractive or not was completely normal. There had been many times in his youth where a friend would turn a more scandalous magazine around commenting on the various attributes the woman had. If he kept repeating the mantra it would feel less nerve wracking.

 

“Well,” Sherlock began studying the picture and the man there. “Cheating on his long term girlfriend with the photographer. Only got the job because of that, clearly. Usually works part time at some kind of clothing establishment. I'd wager footwear apparel in particular. Deep resentment toward father figure in his life, definitely an only child. Believes he can actually make a career out of this, which states all you need to know about his mental state. Most likely says he is in his early twenties and spends too much at bars that aren't designed for his age group. Girlfriend is getting tired of his goings-on and will be ending her relationship with him soon. Before or after finding out about his affairs, who is to say. Might have gone to school for something in the arts? If so, only two years at the most." Sherlock shrugs.

 

John brought the magazine back to himself and saw none of what Sherlock had seen. His amazement temporarily distracted him from being frustrated over Sherlock completely missing his meaning. John flicked through the pages to find another he had earmarked.

 

"That magazine doesn't seem to fit with your wardrobe," Sherlock commented. He'd moved from his seated position to stand next to John. He now had easy access to see the glossy pages.

 

"You mean there are no ugly sweaters to disparage?” John said trying not to sound too cross. Sherlock semi-regularly commented on his wardrobe in not the nicest of lights.

 

"I like your ugly sweaters," Sherlock muttered eyes skipping over the photo. "Oh how obvious," he continued when John had stopped on a new page. Another tall looking bloke, this one with glasses that added a little bit of intelligence to his look. John thought the long billowing coat advertised couldn't hurt. He was nowhere near as dashing as Sherlock looked in his, but maybe his roommate appreciated the similar stylings in a partner. His romantic partner for clarification. But John would never be seen wearing one of those.

 

The deductions for this next one were more disturbing than the former, and had John wanting to close the entire magazine in disgust. He was preparing to do just that when Sherlock's hand closed on his wrist. The contact startled John out of movement. He stared at those elegant fingers in contrast over his own skin. His mouth felt dry as memories of a week ago came back.

 

“This is fun. Let's do another,” Sherlock stated completely ignoring John’s less than gleeful attitude toward the idea.

 

John wasn't certain he could refuse Sherlock of anything at that point. He mutely nodded and flicked to a random page so his friend could begin all over again.

 

In the following days John wasn't trying to invade Sherlock's privacy, though the man had never seemed to value John's much. He wasn't trying to, but he kept finding himself at Sherlock's door as days passed. Always forgetting to knock as he walked into the room with a reason that got flimsier on each excursion. 

 

John had also changed up his schedule this week without letting Sherlock know. He'd secretly hoped to accidentally find Sherlock in some kind of precarious position, but more often than not Sherlock wasn't home. He tended to be there more often during the times he expected John to be there.

 

It wasn't that John thought timed stopped when he went to his day job. He'd come home to enough evidence to prove the falseness of such a claim. John had just never realized that there was a modicum of effort put into syncing their schedules when there was no case.

 

“You don’t mind if I use your laptop, do you?” John asked nonchalantly while eating lunch across the table from Sherlock. It had been four days since the magazine incident. The proximity argument Sherlock presented when borrowing things of John’s had never made much sense to him. He’d like to blame it on laziness, but Sherlock was an extremely productive person. Perhaps he valued the conservation of his seemingly endless amounts of energy. With it being Sherlock’s logic, there was little reason for John to be denied this request.

 

Sherlock tossed a piece of paper aside. “My laptop?” he asked incredulously.

 

“Mine is upstairs.” John replied back with a neutral expression bordering on complete indifference. Sherlock couldn’t very well refuse, given the amount of times he’d done the same to John. Any attempts around that would just loop back to when Sherlock attempted to use one of John’s technology devices again. It was the out of character request that had Sherlock dragging a response into the minutes. Eyes skipped from John to the computer and the cold case files he had been looking over.

 

“I don’t see why not,” he finally responded, staring a hole through the paper in front of him rather than actually reading.

 

“Ta,” John responded, depositing his dishes before shuffling his feet towards the table in the sitting room where his flatmate had left it. It wasn’t password protected like John’s was. John didn’t know why he bothered with that to begin with. Guessing his password seemed like another amusement to Sherlock. Perhaps John liked providing Sherlock with these small entertainments.

 

John sat down on the couch so Sherlock wouldn’t be able to sneak up behind him from the kitchen like he’d done last time. He committed himself to ten minutes of working on the  _ Caught Red Handed _ post from last week. The blogger would like to think he had made some slow, but decent headway. All that was left was the wrap up and cursed beginning of it all. John forced himself to write out the ending of the piece and saved it away to confront the start at a later time.

 

Having at least partly done actual work on the computer, John felt no more comfortable when he pretended to inadvertently look through Sherlock’s history. It turned out to not be nearly as horrifying as the various homicide photos that were in the folders on his desktop, but none of it held what John had been looking for. 

 

Upon opening the computer John had only intended to take a brief look at Sherlock’s history for porn preferences or something in that realm, but there was nothing. Just folders with numbers that he was guessing correlated with cases. Searches for things that varied from strangely normal to a little nauseating. Regardless, he wouldn’t want the Yard to get their hands on it. 

 

John was fully aware that he should be doing none of this. If he didn’t uphold some kind of moral standard in their relationship he wasn’t sure what kind of chaos they would fall into.

 

Shame was crawling its way through his body, heating his face. He needed to close the screen and apologize to Sherlock. Yes, Sherlock looked through his emails and computer constantly, but he didn’t have the same concept of boundaries that John had. John was going to exit the tabs he had open and come clean when he spotted a new folder.

 

It was labeled ‘John Sleeping.’ He shouldn’t have, but there was not a single moment of hesitation when he clicked open the folder and the first file he found. The concept of morality and the better good was thrown out of the window without care for circumstance. The eagerness of something in the realm of the perverse overcame it all. Black font with a blaring white background stared back at him.

 

_ To John: _

_ If you are reading this you have requested to use my laptop for purposes that weren’t originally indicated. In the case that the expression you are currently making did not just give you away the timestamp associated with this document will. _

 

_ To Mycroft: _

_ You are slipping. _

 

“Ah fuck,” John whispered to himself. The brunt of what had just happened hit him full force. John hadn’t known what facial expression he had when reading that, but had no doubt it was incriminating. 

 

He buried his head in hands not wanting to look at the screen mocking him for another moment. The content of the message wasn’t too specific, didn’t say, ‘Stop trying to figure out what I’m getting off to John.’ It might as well have. At what point had Sherlock known John was going to ask for his laptop? It wasn’t something he would have normally done a week ago. Was he this predictable? John wasn’t even willing to consider the Mycroft aspect at this point.

 

John spread his fingertips so he could stare at Sherlock with one eye. Sherlock appeared to be extremely interested in whatever cold case he held in his hands now. A little smirk on his face as he thought of something that was no doubt clever. John wasn’t fooled. Sherlock had to know the extent John’s obsession had gotten away from him. 

 

For the second time in a recent period John debated destroying a laptop in hopes the evidence would be crushed with it. He could just chuck the thing out the window now. The thought came with the knowledge that it was too late for all of that. 

 

John vowed that this was the end of thinking about Sherlock and whatever it was he did to relieve tension when John wasn’t around. Experiments, boredom, all of it.

 

He was done.

 

The next morning John walked into Sherlock’s room, a cup of tea in one hand and a plate of biscuits in the other. He’d not knocked first, just opening the door without hesitation. 

 

John had avoided Sherlock the remainder of yesterday out of guilt and fear that of what would come out of his mouth. The thoughts hadn’t abated even with the vow, if anything every day they became more present, like a constant phantom in his mind that could not be shaken. So he was again in Sherlock’s area of the house without much of a reason to be there. Usually he would wait until Sherlock came to the kitchen to make him tea or something to eat. The exception to this being if his friend had put off the necessity of eating too long, but Sherlock had been doing alright with his diet lately.

 

The door clicked shut behind him. Sherlock’s iconic coat was hanging from the back of it. It was much less dramatic without being wrapped around Sherlock’s looming figure. It also let John know that Sherlock might not be in his bedroom, but he most likely wasn’t far either. John would just leave the tea and biscuits on the nightstand and hightail it out of there before he could get caught in another incriminating action.

 

The nightstand was on the other side of Sherlock’s bed. He was always surprised about how neat the room was. Barely any clutter, unlike the kitchen and common area. The calming green wallpaper did nothing to ease John’s nerves as he deposited the plate and mug on the wooden surface. 

 

He stood there unable to move, staring down at the items that had just left his hand. Why was he even leaving it here in Sherlock’s bedroom in the first place? Would it be more normal to take it back with him and wait for his flatmate’s return? The questions left John indecisive.

 

His eyes moved to fix on the knob to the drawer on Sherlock’s bedside table. John could picture the one he had upstairs. The contents of which amounted to condoms, lotion, and other various items used in sexual activities. There it was the compulsion to do something he knew better than to do. 

 

Unthinkingly his hand had wrapped around the wooden knob to pull the piece of furniture open. He once again found himself wondering what had brought him to this point. John wanted to blame it on Sherlock. How Sherlock was this whirlwind that John couldn’t help be caught up in. Couldn’t help but follow anywhere, no matter where anywhere seemed to take him. John found himself blinking at the space.

 

There was nothing but papers with Sherlock’s various scribblings. Most of it was random single words that made no sense out of context. There was nothing that amounted to a single grain of scandal in the drawer’s contents. 

 

The anticipation John had felt melted away, but the embarrassed flush in his cheeks stayed. He couldn’t help but wonder at what point had he lost his mind. John felt like Sherlock nosing about where he shouldn’t be. Unlike Sherlock, John was getting none of the expected results.

 

“What is wrong with me?” he asked to himself still not ready to shut the drawer. He had to figure out how to end this, maybe have another honest conversation with Sherlock. John wasn’t sure how to state that he couldn’t stop thinking about Sherlock and sex without getting the wrong message across. The wrong message had to be better than this intense gnawing feeling in his gut.

 

He jumped back when the door opened and in walked the very man of his thoughts. Sherlock’s brows rose in surprise. He paused in his stride before closing the door. “Morning, John.”

 

“Morning,” John mumbled his eyes glancing away in a hurry. How quickly would the detective see through him this time? That he’d allowed himself to be caught in this position was unacceptable.

 

Sherlock huffed still standing still, taking in John. “Really, John?” He went on to dig through the pocket of the coat hanging on the back of the door. John wasn’t sure what that meant, but he was frozen in a thrilling sort of fear.

 

John couldn’t cover his surprise when Sherlock threw a pack of cigarettes onto his bed. The beige sheets made the packaging stand out brightly.

 

“There they are. I wasn’t going to smoke them,” Sherlock said with an expression that couldn’t exactly be trusted.

 

“Cigarettes?” John asked back dumbly in weak comprehension as a rectangular, mostly white, package was presented to him. They glared back at him and he couldn’t comprehend why the cigarettes were sitting in his view. Why Sherlock wasn’t pushing him to the edge of comfort over why he was in the bedroom in the first place. “Cigarettes.”

 

Sherlock had taken a few steps closer to him, but stopped again at John’s repetitive speech. “That’s not what you were searching for?” It dawned on John only then their purpose and he found his body going into motion. He tried to school his expression into something disapproving at this saving grace.

 

“No. Uh, yes, yes that is exactly what I was searching for.” John ran his hand along his neck and resisted the urge to pull at his own collar. “That you’ve given them up this easily is surprising. How many more of these are laying around the flat?” John adorned one of his more steely tones and changed his stance to reflect the lack of acceptance over the behavior. How had he not noticed Sherlock was smoking again? Too preoccupied with his own thoughts.

 

“No, that’s not it at all,” Sherlock countered. His eyes were narrowed into suspicious mirror-reflective slits. John had caught up too late and his acting hadn’t been up to a level that could fool anyone, let alone the world’s only consulting detective.

 

“Sherlock--“

 

Sherlock walked around the room taking the time to touch the edges of the comforter. Sherlock stopped in front of the bedside table just a couple feet from John. He let his fingers curl around the knob that opened it. “Oh, oh I see. Of course.” 

 

Sherlock swung back around and he had already moved into John’s personal space to the point that there wasn’t much room to go. “You could have just asked,” he said plaintively, his head cocked in open study.

 

John resisted the urge to squirm like a caught animal. “I don’t--“

 

Sherlock was already moving away from John, ignoring what had started to come out of his mouth in favor of the wardrobe across the room. “I wouldn’t keep that there,” Sherlock muttered digging through various items and casting them aside with loud thunks. “The Yard searches the apartment too often,” he continued as John stood there shaking. He could breathe easier with the newfound distance, but words still weren’t coming forward.

 

He couldn’t help watching Sherlock’s ass as he was bent over. It didn’t matter that he was a guy, the man had a great ass. The material currently stretched over Sherlock did nothing but draw attention to this. John could admit that, it wasn’t about attraction. He wasn’t hopelessly attracted to a lunatic he could happily call his best friend. John had missed whatever else Sherlock had said. Attention only redirected when Sherlock came forward with a wooden box that required both hands.

 

The idea of breathing was lost again as Sherlock deposited it on the bed not too far from the cigarettes. He was standing by John again, radiating heat. The lid of the box was pushed back slowly. John should look away, make an excuse to quickly leave the room, but he was glued in his spot. His eyes stuck. He could pick up the low rumble of Sherlock’s voice, but not the words.

 

He had seen most of it before. The condoms and lube for sure, he’d expected that when opening the drawer upon first coming into the room. His mind hadn’t thought as much about handcuffs, vibrators of varying colors and sizes, or anal beads. There were a couple of items that he didn’t recognize, but could imagine their use. 

 

John found his hand reaching forward as a large purple dildo caught his eye. He wanted to smack his own hand down and run from the room. Here was more proof that Sherlock had sex, wasn’t disgusted by the notion like John had originally assumed those many months ago.

 

John found himself starting to get hard. The beginning of a press against his trousers. “Do you--” he started a question, but stopped. Licked his bottom lip. He’d been wondering if Sherlock used these things on himself or other people.

 

“Both.” 

 

The rush of heat to his groin was impossible to ignore. His remaining breath left him in a hurry. Of course Sherlock had known what John was going to ask, of course he did. Images were gluing themselves into John’s thoughts. Ones that he couldn’t pretend to shake. He imagined they’d stick there for days, weeks. His mouth felt like the Sahara and his finger twitched as his side.

 

“I just came in here to drop off something for you to eat,” John started in a pointless denial. How transparent he must be, but it felt necessary. It established a distance that he would need if he wanted to make it from this room in one piece. That he’d have  _ wanted _ to see something this obscene couldn’t be said out loud. No matter how true it was.

 

“In my bedside drawer?” Sherlock questioned curiously, his voice was pitched deeper than John had ever heard before. John found himself shivering.

 

Panic was no longer willing to play a background part in this scene. John was usually a fighter, but the instinct of flight kicked in. 

 

“I-- I’m going to take a shower,” raced out of his mouth, ignoring the fact that he’d just taken a shower. 

 

The curious and imploring gaze that followed him into the bathroom as he ran away could not be ignored. Still John hoped if he moved far away enough from Sherlock he could leave all of these new feelings behind.

 

Rather than being left behind they made themselves more apparent as John stripped off his clean clothing in a rush in favor of hot water. 

 

Scenarios played through his head in fast forward. All of them of Sherlock and what he could have done if John hadn’t fled. He had already stepped inside the tub, barely throwing his last sock aside when doing so. The knowledge that Sherlock was just a doorway away didn’t leave as he curled his hand around the hard flesh that was standing to attention against his stomach. The water wasn’t even fully warmed yet, but the heat and frenzy of his actions pushed that all away.

 

The strokes were hurried as he let weeks of frustration come down to this moment. The one where he finally recognized the problem. That once he’d known Sherlock was capable of having sex that’s all he could think about. That’s all he wanted. 

 

He could see Sherlock pushing him down on the bed even now. Those long, elegant fingers dancing across John’s skin. Pulling the soft groans that fell out of his mouth now instead of his own hands. It was intoxicating and impossible to resist. John’s hand continued to fly over himself as his hair dampened under the spray of water.

 

John could see it. Almost feel Sherlock hands wandering. He let his free hand do the same, tracing over his ass, closer to his entrance. John could imagine it perfectly, picture a situation where he wouldn’t mind Sherlock’s fingers pushing into him in sure knowledgeable strokes. John’s hand moved faster over his length at the idea, at the feeling of his own knuckles brushing over his hole. He stood there just flirting with the idea. It had to have only been minutes since he’d left Sherlock’s bedroom and he was already straddling the edge.

 

It all came to an end in an abrupt ceasing of all movement when a cool breeze interrupted the hot steam that had gathered in the room. While John hadn’t taken in the water’s heat, the change in temperature was hard to ignore. The sound of the curtain being drawn back was impossible to not notice. The man standing there a figure that could not be overlooked. 

 

The man that had been constantly in his thoughts since the moment John had met him.

 

Sherlock.

 

There he was, in the bathroom.

 

There he was, in the bathroom while John had his hand around his own dick.

 

“Sherlock--,” The only word that could possibly leave his mouth in that moment.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “This is the inevitable.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn’t think I’d get here at some points during this year, but here is the final chapter of An Average Person’s Perspective! Thank you to everyone who stuck along with me through this and to newer readers as well. Every comment has deeply been appreciated. Thank you as well to [88thParallel](http://archiveofourown.org/users/CanadaHolm/pseuds/88thParallel) for betaing this chapter and going back to beta the three previous. I hope you guys enjoy this chapter and have/had wonderful holidays this season!
> 
> [Tumblr](http://ofthelilies.tumblr.com/)

John could feel the water continuing to barrage his face with little slaps. He felt they were telling him to wake up, to move, to do something, but all he could do was stare in shock as Sherlock stared back at him. Sherlock had been about to say something when he’d ripped the shower curtains back, but had immediately halted. There was already a spray of water beginning to mist the front of his shirt.

 

“I--” Sherlock started and stopped. His gaze was fixed on the hand John had placed on his ass, fingers moving closer to a destination he’d never dreamt of them being. John’s face was already red, but burned brighter at the predicament he was in. He shoved his hand to his side and on second thought moved to cover his bits before Sherlock could get anymore of an eyeful. 

 

This successfully jolted Sherlock into conversation. “I thought this would make us even now,” Sherlock trailed off though his eyes were now flickering about. Not like they did when he was deducing, that was much more purposeful. This had confusion mixed with something dark enough to edge the blue out of his irises. He continued on saying something about patterns and predictability. It all washed down the drain with the water.

 

“Get out," he rasped, words barely more than a whisper. John was still trying to find his grounding and Sherlock was looking a little stunned; an expression unusual enough that it had briefly distracted John from everything else happening right now. 

 

“Jesus Christ, Sherlock. Get out!” He pitched his voice into a shout. John cursed as he grabbed for the shower curtain in an attempt to regain his dignity. He was fairly certain he had none now.

 

Sherlock was saying words that went through one ear and out the other. John could gauge the tone: the one that was attempting to cover Sherlock’s true emotions with a falsely arrogant facade. John didn’t know how to feel so he tried to work himself up to seething. Something other than the embarrassment and yes, lust, he was feeling over the current situation. 

  
  


Sherlock stood staring at John for a moment before turning and leaving the room wordlessly. His absence still left an imprint in the air that John couldn’t shake. Making up his mind that anger was the only alternative after Sherlock had seen John about to stick his finger up his ass, he pulled himself out of the shower. Hastily wrapping a towel around his waist, he let the rest of the water drip. Some collected at the towel’s edge, but most ran down his legs leaving puddles in his wake. He barely had the mind to shut the shower off as he stomped forward.

 

“This is not on,” he yelled, opening the door Sherlock must have closed on his way out. He hadn’t expected Sherlock to be leaning right outside against the hallway wall, staring blankly at his own hands in contemplation. His face was disturbingly absent of emotion.

Sherlock apparently hadn’t been expecting John to come out so quickly either. His head snapped up. “What?” He packed a lot into the one word. Disdain and a haughty note of defensiveness. Like, how dare John come out here and bother him while he was in deep contemplation? The nerve of him!

John breathed in and out slowly. He’d been forcing the anger, but it was coming a bit more easier in the face of this. “That,” John started pointed towards the doorway. “You can’t do that Sherlock.”

“Can’t do what?” Sherlock look petulantly bored and was glancing slowly between the path to the living room and the one to his bedroom, trying to make up his mind about where to flee.

“Really?” John questioned, unamused at the childish turn this was looking like it was about to take. “You can’t--“ Purposefully walk in on him when he was masturbating? John’s cheeks felt that oh too familiar hot tinge to them. “You can’t do that,” he tried again.

“I’d taken you for a lot of things, but a hypocrite wasn’t one of them.” Sherlock shot him a faintly sardonic smile, but John could see the beginnings of true amusement trickling in. Whatever thoughts that had held Sherlock’s attention when John had first barreled into the hallway were gone now. Sherlock turned towards his bedroom taking wide strides.

John didn’t know what to say to that. Anything he said now would be particularly damning or a lie. What was the point of lying to someone like Sherlock? Neither of them would have been convinced. John struggled to keep up with his friend. Had to clutch at the towel to keep it around his waist. It’s goal was to cover him up, but it did little to hide the erection he was still sporting.

“You’re right, I shouldn’t have been trying to spy on you this past week, either.”

“I wasn’t spying on you. Only attempting to help you get past it,” Sherlock muttered striding up towards his bed. John wasn’t really sure what he was supposed to do now. “Didn’t go as planned.”

“I’m past it. I’m good,” John tried to say convincingly. Maybe he wasn’t past it, but he surely wasn’t going to be doing what he had been ever since he first caught Sherlock in the act. It was setting a bad example and it didn’t sit right with him either. 

 

Besides, John had now correctly identified the problem. It wasn’t that he was in disbelief that Sherlock participated in those kind of activities, it was how attracted he was to the man now that he knew that he could. Sometimes did, on certain occasions. Maybe in a way, John was still in denial. There was a possibility that the attraction had always been there and this had only been a catalyst for recognition.

Now with a reason, John could deal with his emotional and sometimes physical reactions. John could carefully categorize his emotions and organize them so nothing like this ever happened gain. Sherlock wasn’t the only friend John had who he found attractive in his life. Finding someone appealing wasn’t the same thing as trying to sleep with them.

Sherlock began unbuttoning his shirt.

John felt his tongue trail over his lip, his gaze dropping to the pale skin that was revealed with each button. He then realized what he was doing, and how at odds it was to his newfound resolve to go back to how things had been weeks ago.

 

“Why are you stripping?” He had meant for it to come out harsher. A little more reprimanding. John was fairly certain the piece of clothing hadn’t gotten wet enough that it needed to be changed. Instead his voice came out low and more gravelly than normal conversation could usually afford.

 

“We’re going to have sex, obviously.” Sherlock was giving him the you’re an idiot expression as he slipped his shirt right off his shoulders. John tracked it as it pooled to the floor.

 

Taking in the words, John sputtered “What? No, no. Sherlock that is not what is happening here.” He could feel another part of himself twitch with interest even as the words hurried out of his mouth. They came across stronger than he expected and he was thankful for that. His brain tried helplessly to follow the train of thought that led Sherlock here.

 

“Why? You are clearly interested,” Sherlock said, his hand playing idly with the edge of his trousers. John was trying very hard to look directly into Sherlock’s eyes. Not his frame, that while too thin, had decent muscle definition. Had to with how active Sherlock was on a day-to-day basis. 

 

John wasn’t thinking about tracing his tongue against those ridges, along his hip bone, lower. He wouldn’t allow himself to.

 

Sherlock continued when John didn’t respond. “I’ll admit to some confusion when you started showing me pictures of men you were attracted to, but I’m fairly certain my conclusion is correct.”

 

John’s face screwed up in a complete lack of understanding. “What?” he said echoing Sherlock’s earlier word. This time it sounded much more lost. How had they gone from talking to John wanting to have sex with Sherlock to John’s attraction to other men? John was fairly certain that Sherlock stood alone in this department as he did in so many others.

 

“Magazine.”

 

Comprehension was reached. “I was showing you men you were attracted to,” John said slowly. Trying to figure out the trap here. Admitting to that much already felt like too much.

 

“I wasn’t attracted to any of them.” Sherlock couldn’t look more disgusted if he tried. He was still playing idly with his waistline. Regarding John with a slight tilt of the head. Waiting on him.

 

“I mean, men I thought you would be attracted to,” John said quickly. There was a strange sense of relief at Sherlock’s words then. Sherlock hadn’t been attracted to any of them, but he was here with John. Shirt off and willing to participate in all of the unwilling fantasies John had tried batting away for days.

 

“Why would you think I’d be attracted to them?” Sherlock asked curiously.

 

John searched for the words that would clear this all away. “Posh,” he replied looking again at the incredibly expensive shirt on the ground. “Tall,” he muttered quickly glancing up to meet eyes that he was more familiar with than his own. He swallowed uneasily.  “Brilliant looking.”

 

There was this sort of half grin on Sherlock’s face that couldn’t really be called anything but sexual. Warmth flooded John’s gut and he had to leave the room before he embarrassed himself any further. “I see the merit of your argument and believe the problems lies in the application of it.”

 

John was licking his lips again. Tried to stop himself before it could be considered an invitation. His thoughts were slowing and making Sherlock’s speech difficult to parse.

 

“The truth is,” Sherlock took a step towards him and John’s body was torn between taking a mirroring step or leaving whatever this was before it could escalate further. “I’m attracted to mediocre bloggers that find me brilliant.”

 

“I feel so special,” John attempted dryly. Sherlock insulted John while complimenting himself: . a combination John was never particularly fond of. Still, he did feel special and wasn’t that just alarming? Everything pointed to danger.

 

So of course John would never leave. Not again.

 

“Is this an experiment?” John asked because it was the first thing he could think of with Sherlock now within touching distance. He only had a towel on and Sherlock was wearing trousers and maybe pants. Who was to say? John couldn’t properly measure how much he wanted to find out.

 

“We can make it into one if you’d like.” Sherlock appeared to find this funny and was joking in a way that did nothing to ease the different directions John’s thoughts were spinning in. ‘Leave now,’ too many of them said. 

 

Water was pooling on the floor beneath John. Sherlock’s gaze cut back to John’s bottom lip, in fact seemed to have taken up residence there. John knew that look. Knew exactly what came next.

 

“No John, this is not an experiment.” Sherlock had surprised John with the sudden serious texture to his voice. It dipped to a lower rumble with the next words, “This is the inevitable.”

 

John was the one reaching up. Tangling his hands in those curly locks he’d often been thinking about. He’d constantly wondered if Sherlock used product because he could never actually find any in the bathroom. They were smooth and comforting in his hands.

 

Sherlock’s mouth was not.

 

There was nothing gentle about the first kiss. It felt more like a call to war than a reason to go to bed with someone. There were teeth as their mouths crushed together in a culmination of all the days passed. 

 

John forced Sherlock backwards, towards the bed. Sherlock had said it was obvious they were going to have sex. If John was being honest he’d known that as well. Felt the heat crackling between them when Sherlock had entered the bedroom earlier this morning. The way it went from warm to so blistering John had to leave the room or do something stupid.

 

Nothing about kissing Sherlock felt stupid. The long fingers John had had untold  dirty thoughts about were mapping the landscape of his body, finding nothing lacking. John had never felt so confident while being nearly naked in front of another person in his life. The caress of hands that went from hard to soft echoed a sense of reverence.

 

John pulled away to breathe. Sherlock spun him around and pushed him onto the bed.

 

Their eyes met again, like they had done countless times since they’d known each other. Something had always been magnetic about eye contact with Sherlock Holmes. John was always drawn back no matter how many times his gaze was pulled away.

 

Inevitable. This was the inevitable.

 

John felt the full impact of that now. It seemed impossible that this hadn’t always been leading to the here and now. John touched his lip, dull pain making him fairly sure that Sherlock had bitten him. If he had, it hadn’t been hard enough to break the skin.

 

Sherlock threw John’s towel to the side like it offended him. He did it so quickly that John barely processed the motion. It was different than in the shower because this time there was intention. The knowledge that every look would be followed by a touch. A counter touch made by him. All leading to the satisfying conclusion John had been constantly trying not to think about.

 

The zipper on Sherlock’s pants was lowered slowly, giving John every chance to stop this before it could truly pick up traction. John was fairly certain he was already the boulder falling down a particularly steep hill.

 

“This is really not smart,” John breathed leaning back onto his elbows so he could properly take Sherlock in.

 

“Probably not,” was responded instantly in agreement. Sherlock pushed fabric out of the way.  “We’ve done much stupider.” There was nothing but Sherlock underneath.

 

John tried to chuckle because it was true. On the list of the many thoughtless things they had done together, this didn’t rank too high. 

 

The laughter caught in his throat. John had been too busy trying to pretend he wasn’t trying to look last time, and hadn’t had the time to commit any details of Sherlock’s cock to memory. It had the slightest tilt to the right and was angling up towards his abdomen. It fit in perfectly with Sherlock’s long lean frame. The flush that started in Sherlock’s cheeks was echoed more darkly there.

 

Sherlock smiled. “Should I ask what you’re thinking about?” John was thinking a lot of things, one of which was hat Sherlock had a nice cock. Not that he’d had many erect ones this close to his face before. John found that he wanted to see what it felt like under his touch.

 

“You can’t tell?” It was an evasion tactic, but he tried to get it to come across as teasing. His hands were aching at his sides. 

 

Sherlock shrugged. “I’d rather hear you say it.”

 

“You have a nice--“ John began to repeat his earlier thought as it was probably the least condemning of them all. Why he was still worried about that, he wasn’t sure. It was a bit late for such concerns. He cut himself off looking back to Sherlock’s face.

 

“If you can’t say it I don’t think you get to put it in your mouth.” Sherlock was looking both amused and arrogant. The upper hand he had here was felt acutely as John went scarlet. He actually hadn’t gotten quite that far in his thoughts before. They were there now with images that he didn’t quite want to wipe from his mind.

 

John couldn’t let Sherlock have the upper hand. He reached forward quickly enough that Sherlock didn’t have time to react. Hesitantly running a finger along the hot, hard flesh. It was smooth under his rough fingertips. 

 

It was barely even a touch, but Sherlock shuddered and looked vaguely astonished.

 

“Yeah?” Feeling the moisture collecting at the tip John changed from just a finger to a light grip. “You sure about that?”

 

Sherlock had gone very still as if he was holding his breath. His eyes narrowed, and John could tell he was weighing possibilities right now. John found himself holding his breath as well. There was something about having all of a man like Sherlock’s attention that was arresting. John had no doubt he had all of it now with the slow explorative strokes of his hand.

 

John started when Sherlock’s hand settled over his own. He’d been staring directly into the thin strips of blue and had missed the motion entirely. Sherlock tightened both of their holds and breathed out a pleasured sigh, speeding up the rhythm John had set.

 

“You’re more than welcome to prove me wrong.” Daring him with the slight upturn to his mouth. John now knew what that cupid’s bow felt like against his own. How Sherlock could be as hungry for more contact as he was for his next case.

 

John made himself busy concentrating on their shared movement. The subtle thrust forward of Sherlock’s hips on the downstroke. He was doing this. He was having sex with a man. More than any man, he was going to have sex with  _ Sherlock Holmes _ . His best friend. 

 

His breath came out in the beginnings of a gasp as he processed what was said. Saliva pooled in his mouth at the idea, his head already pitching forward.

 

Yeah, yeah he could do that.

 

John tipped his face forward, the movement slow as uncertainty flashed through him. Sherlock had let his hand fall back to his side. His mouth was open as if in mimicry of John’s own expression. John moved closer letting his tongue flick across the tip of Sherlock’s cock with hesitancy. The taste was salty and slightly bitter. John didn’t think he minded it as he edge even closer to take Sherlock into his mouth.

 

There was a sharp tug, pulling him from the root of his hair shortly after. John groaned at the pressure, the vibrations enough to draw a hiss from Sherlock. John had expected Sherlock to push his head down farther, urge John to take more of him in. John was more than happy to do just that, but instead Sherlock pulled him off, and didn't waste any time in pushing John to lay down on the bed. Sherlock crawled over him as only John's feet and ankles dangled over the edge of the mattress.

 

Before he could voice any disappointment over that particular activity ending so quickly, Sherlock's mouth was back on his, hungry and searching for more contact. One hand was angling his jaw while the other moved over John's chest, stopping to thumb over his nipple a few times. He arched up into the contact, breath coming in aborted gasps.

 

Sherlock broke away from the kiss (which feltess a kiss, and more like an attempt to devour John's soul). "Last chance."

 

"Huh?" John questioned, running one hand up and down Sherlock’s side, stopping to trace the hip bone that stood out in stark contrast from the rest of the lean body.

 

"To be the sensible one and say we should stop." Sherlock's eyes were glittering in that dangerous way that made John's heart pound. The notion of stopping had never entered his mind since they had started.

 

"Let it be noted," John said, cupping the back of Sherlock's neck and preparing to draw him back in, "Sherlock has admitted I'm the sensible one." More contact and exchange of heated breath. Sherlock's hand was slipping lower. "Fuck sensible. I'll be sensible later."

 

"And here I thought you'd be fucking me," Sherlock mused, ducking his head to mask his delight.

 

"Really? I thought you'd be the one doing that," John retorted shortly. The back and forth being brought to a halt as Sherlock took him in hand. His fingers had a much tighter hold than John's had earlier. There was no hesitancy here. Just Sherlock studying his face and adjusting the speed and angle at which he held his hand accordingly.

 

"If you would prefer I'm more than happy to oblige." Every time John thought Sherlock's voice couldn't reach any deeper depths he was proved wrong. It pulled at strings inside him that left him overheated. Sherlock brought a long finger to his mouth, his right hand still continuing the stroking. He put the digit into his mouth, and wrapped his tongue around it, thoroughly coating it in saliva. The sight was obscene.

 

He repeated the action with two more fingers. John thought he could come from just watching Sherlock do that. The grin that showed rows of teeth said Sherlock knew as much.

 

John was already moaning lowly before Sherlock’s left hand descended. It brushed passed his balls making him jerk before tracing over his hole lightly, the saliva slick digit just teasing as it moved against him, not entering yet. There was a moment that almost bordered on doubt when the slide of finger pressing in broke John away from all of that.

 

“Oh, god,” John groaned, throwing his head back so he didn’t have to take in Sherlock’s sly smile. His energy was infectious and John was pretty sure if he absorbed anymore of it he’d be overloaded -- would be in danger of combustion. 

 

Sherlock was still thrusting with a single finger when he removed his other hand from John’s cock. John made a sound of displeasure that was met with a harder thrust of the finger. Sherlock was reaching back to dig lube and a condom out of the box he’d shown John earlier.

 

Sherlock poured a liberal amount of lube over his fingers and John’s entrance. He wasted no time in adding a second finger, the glide of it smoother than before. John had never imagined that being fingered in the ass would feel this good. It felt like every nerve ending inside of him was sparking at every pass of Sherlock’s fingers. John found himself writhing when Sherlock crooked them at a new angle. It hit a place in him that had him seeing white and worrying that he was going to come before they even got to the main event.

 

Despite John whispering words that were supposed to make Sherlock hurry, he took his time in slowly taking John apart. John opened his eyes to watch Sherlock watch him. There was a flush that went from Sherlock’s face all the way down to his chest. His bottom lip had fallen open showing the pink of his mouth. His eyes appeared to be in the midst of a high or valiantly chasing one, and held the smallest bit of disbelief. John had to wonder what he looked like through those eyes. Thoroughly debauched most likely. Breaths were being dragged out of him now, his hips moving in a motion that beckoned for something more.

 

Whatever Sherlock was seeing, he was done with the teasing. He withdrew his fingers and ripped open the condom packet with his teeth. John positioned his body so he could properly see Sherlock roll it onto himself. Holding his length in hand and moving to position John so he could easily slide in, John remembered how this had all started. Him walking in on Sherlock in an intimate act, cock in hand. But it didn’t get more intimate than this.

 

Sherlock lined himself up with one hand right beside John’s head to brace himself. The positioning allowed John to feel Sherlock’s fevered breathing against his face. The careful pushing forward was a mix of a soft burning sensation with an overwhelming amount of pleasure. Sherlock’s deep voice groaned in John’s ear as he slid in all the way, then he held himself still, waiting for John to adjust to the size of him.

 

John wasn’t sure if he’d ever be able to get used to the sensation, but fuck if it didn’t feel good. John told Sherlock as much which had them both chuckling. Nothing felt funny when Sherlock dragged back out and pushed in with a harder thrust. The pace Sherlock set was slow, but consistent. Just like when he’d fingered John, Sherlock took his time making him fall apart all over again.

 

John used one hand to curl around Sherlock’s back, so he could feel every push and pull of his movements. The other he curled into his hair to urge their mouths together in desperate open-mouthed kisses. Their tongues tangled in a dance the rest of their bodies followed. 

 

Even now, it wasn’t close enough. Sherlock’s thrusts became harder and more determined as he pressed against John’s prostate with each rough pass. When Sherlock broke away gasping John moved his attention to long slender neck.

 

The concept of gentle first times was lost as Sherlock pounded himself in. “Fuck,” breathed Sherlock roughly. The words ringing in John’s ear as the thrusting became more erratic. John found himself being pushed over an edge he wasn’t even aware he was near at the sound of it.

 

Distantly he could hear himself moaning Sherlock’s name, pushing back against each thrust as he came in thick spurts along their bodies. Sherlock groaned loudly as he thrust in impossibly hard two more times before stilling against John. The only thing left was the sound of harsh breaths of air against each other’s skin.

 

Sherlock gingerly pulled out and rolled over next to John. They both stared up at the ceiling in a daze before glancing at each other at the same moment. There were a few seconds of silence as they took in each other’s ruffled post-sex appearance before they burst into a fit of giggles. The giggles turned into bouts of full body laughter because it had taken John walking in on Sherlock masturbating and then following him around for weeks to lead to this. This which was always going to happen despite any of John’s internal struggles.

 

It only ended when Sherlock went to toss the condom he’d tied off in the bin. John greedily took in his naked appearance. “Did you plan this from the beginning?” He had to ask. It was such a Sherlock thing to do.

 

Sherlock seemed surprised by the question, but quickly neutralized the expression when walking back over to John. “Of course.”

 

It had been too late, and the expression too telling. “You’re such a liar,” John said giving him a playful shove when he came to sit next to where John was laying. 

 

Sherlock pushed some of John’s still shower damp hair from his forehead. The unexpected gesture had a warm feeling that was a little different from desire spreading over him. “Should I go?” he asked suddenly, realizing he might be reading more into the situation than he should. 

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes at him. “Don’t be ridiculous.” John felt instantly relieved, and brought himself to sit up so they could talk face to face. They really should discuss everything that had happened thoroughly like adults, possibly over dinner.

 

Since John hadn’t verbally responded, Sherlock continued, “This can be whatever you want it to be.” It was the most vulnerable John had ever seen the man. He was giving John the option of deciding what the two of them became together next. John had no illusions over what he wanted.

 

John looked away to hide a smile. “Hungry?”

 

“Starving," Sherlock responded back immediately, leaning in closer to John. His voice held the relief that John had felt only moments earlier.

 

“A bit backwards, but how does a date at Angelo’s sound?” When there wasn't an immediate answer, “There will be food.” It wasn't exactly the biggest draw for Sherlock, but John wanted to say whatever he could to convince Sherlock to say yes.

 

Sherlock smiled a little, dropping his eyes to the bed. “And you. There will be you.” He look back and he knew they both wanted the same things for each other. No matter the strange winding path that had led them here.

 

“Well, yes," John said leaning in closer as well.

 

Sherlock closed the remaining distance and right before their lips met, whispered, “Sounds perfect.”

 

John couldn't agree more.


End file.
